


Katabasis

by ToastyMage



Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-03-05 07:36:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13383180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToastyMage/pseuds/ToastyMage
Summary: Weeks after his immense loss at the dam, a lonely and struggling Nick Clark copes by summoning his friend in the haze of predawn drug binges. One sunrise, however, compels him to reflect and make a pivotal decision to see one more thing through - regardless of the likely cost.





	1. Some Kind of Orpheus

**Author's Note:**

> This is an extended first chapter of my Nick & Troy focused work, "Katabasis", which is a Greek word referring to a descent. In this case, it is a reference to the myth of Orpheus, who tried to bring his dead wife Eurydice back from the Underworld.
> 
> I have no real idea yet how long this work will end up being, but I do hope you enjoy what you read here. Additional chapters will be slow to arrive, given various other commitments. But rest assured, I will continue updating as I can.

Another sunrise in haunted Mexicali, and Nick had been outside and awake to greet it. Had been awake all night, in fact. But he wasn’t any closer to sleep now. He’d come to crave this, sitting on the ground, catching the breeze that echoed with coyote howls and eerie calls of strange birds. Often times he swore that faint human screams were mixed in with them, but he never thought too much on that. He instead just fixated on the reddish-pink sky splashed with bits of blue. This time, he had gotten a hold of something the locals called, “Poción Mágica” - a drink with tequila, and some sort of crushed up special ingredient, or two. He didn’t ask questions. Never did. Just downed it, and saw what sorts of trouble he could find before the sun made its next appearance. It had propelled him forward, evoked weightlessness, and much like with the brain stems, had plucked away his fear.

He turned to look directly at the horizon, his face still plastered with an evening’s worth of dead blood. He’d looked for him again. He’d looked for Troy in crowds of decaying roamers. But he still hadn’t found him. A part of him was relieved, and reasoned that he probably wouldn't find him that way due to the hammer strikes to his head. That they'd have prevented reanimation altogether. But another part of him despaired. He still wasn’t entirely sure, if he did find him among them, whether he’d have the strength to put him down or wind up being consumed by him after their eyes connected. By this point, Nick had actually endured more than a few nightmares about that precise scenario. In them, Troy scarcely looked like himself, clothes shredded and flesh decomposing for months. Only his hair and oddly, his eyes, were the least bit reminiscent of his former incarnation. The young Clark trembled upon recalling it. He tried to shake it out of his consciousness, and looked toward the sky. _Goddamnit..._

He’d finally lost count of sunrises since he left Troy’s body behind at the dam. For about five weeks, he’d been counting every one. It wasn’t really about noting the time that passed. Time for him was relative, anyway. Purely theoretical. There was no next week, next month, next year - sometimes not even a “tomorrow” he could plan for. And even less so in this new world. But counting sunrises...part of it had to do with reminding himself that he was still alive. In spite of all the good faith attempts he’d made to _not_ be, both before and after Troy’s death. For so long Nick had merely been existing, hovering in one place at times, his words hushed and his hollow eyes staring back like those of a ghost in a forgotten vale. That deadness inside him had long been there, certainly, but it rose and fell like the ocean’s tide. Troy’s companionship had often forced it to recede so far back into him that he felt as though he were teetering on the edge of a kind of invincibility when he was around him. _With_ him. He’d never felt a greater rush.

But now, with the last Otto so violently removed from his life, that deadness had hastily returned. So hastily, in fact, that he’d tried to end himself shortly after it happened. Up there, at the top of the dam. The detonator had felt so comfortable in his hand. And he’d smiled down through the fence at his family as they escaped on their tiny boat. His smile might have looked dreamy to anyone who did see it. Perhaps even deliriously resigned to his fate. Of course his mother and sister couldn’t see it, only his lean figure in silhouette. But all he could hear in his mind then was Troy’s laughter. The laughter, which had given way to agitated huffs and reprimands, then to snickers and groans, and fevered gasps in the night. In the weak light of their hotel room. The two of them. Sweaty and spent. Nick quivered now with pleasant chills as he remembered both that evening and the dawn that followed.

But his thoughts darkened as he reflected on what had seemed an almost fool-proof plan. As the C4 detonated and the shockwaves rattled through the structure, he’d began mouthing his goodbyes. To his family, to life, and to Troy. That was when he began crying again, hot tears down his cheeks mixing with the spray from the churning water. When he thought about his last glimpses of Troy, of his body lying on the floor inside, somewhere beneath his feet, Nick felt his legs start to give way. He remembered that overwhelming faintness. _This is it_ , he’d thought. And he’d allowed the darkness to wash slowly over his sight.

A hand had seized his arm, though. A hand, and a stubborn strength behind it that refused to let him go. Nick remembered pulling away at first, and becoming angrier when he opened his eyes. And seeing that a freshly bloodied Daniel Salazar, of all people, had come to spirit him away from his chosen doom. “ _Damnit,_ _why can’t you just let me go?”_ He had screamed through sobs. “ _Why can’t anyone just let me go?!”_

Yet at some point, something had compelled Nick to be led away - much to his own disappointment. And the pair of them had descended with as much haste as they could manage. A brilliant flash had followed, as well as the feeling of separation, the older man’s sturdy hand no longer seizing his arm, and sudden free-fall. He’d wanted to cry out as he fell, but nothing escaped his throat. So he had closed his eyes again, and waited for all sounds to stop, for all feeling to cease. The very last thing he could recall about those moments was hitting the water.

All of these weeks later, after the dam’s destruction, Nick yet lacked knowledge of how he’d gotten to distant shoreline. Had it been some good samaritan who’d spotted his bruised body and pulled him up and out? Had he merely drifted, enjoying marvelous luck and remaining afloat on his back? He couldn’t know how. He had awoken to darkness, and the weak light of a flickering torch stuck in the ground a few feet from him. By some additional miracle, the dead had stayed away, perhaps fooled by his unconsciousness. He’d heard them shuffling and snarling, though, when he finally became aware of his surroundings. The night sky. The water’s edge. The drowned dead meandering nearby, but thankfully far enough away that he could shakily draw his blade should any notice him. Everything in him hurt, however, and he’d struggled to move at first. But somehow, he’d eventually pulled himself to his feet, gritting through the pain. And hobbled through the darkness, taking the torch with him, and moving until he found shelter further down the river.

He mused about it again, now, as he continued staring at the evolving horizon at present. That endless luck of his. The impossible luck for which Troy had teased him. He mused about how it had preserved him once more back then. Not only that, but also how it had allowed him to stumble upon sympathetic survivors on the outskirts of Tijuana some days after the ordeal. And not long after that, enabled him to catch a ride back to Mexicali. El Bazar had awaited him there, still buzzing with all manner of impropriety. He’d done his best to hold in tears and suppress sniffles upon approaching it. The last time he’d rolled up to it had been with Troy, and it affected him to see it again. So little had changed about it since their stay here, that he’d let himself feel for a perplexing moment that nothing had happened at the dam. He’d indulged his deep-seated denial, and half-hoped he’d see his friend pop out from one of the busy corridors and pull him along to their room.

When he revisited the bar, and still-gruff “El Matarife” asked about his “skeptical” friend’s absence, Nick had finally allowed himself to weep once more. They weren’t just tears for Troy, but for all that had transpired. He couldn’t know what he’d do or say if he ever saw his mother again. Yes, he strongly suspected that she and his sister made their way up and out of the chaos, bleak as it’d seemed. But even if they were all reunited, it could never be what it was. Too many broken pieces now, in a puzzle much too intricate.

And so, this was where his present reality had begun: sick with grief and lost in the dark spirit of El Bazar, imbibing whatever was plopped down in front of him. Never asked what, how strong, what the effects would be. He’d figured he’d just be surprised. Quite possibly “El Matarife” had taken pity on this wretched soul that first night back, because all Nick did afterward was stumble to the same room he’d shared with Troy and promptly tumble onto one of the narrow beds, falling fast asleep. Even the ache in his bones and muscles had temporarily disappeared. And he’d proceeded to dream about his friend smiling as they drove.

Later that night, however, he’d abruptly awoken to an intriguing recollection. Troy’s irritation at Nick’s insistence to get them both within an inch of death at the hands of putrid herds and local criminals alike had seen the Otto brother grab up one of the last “goodie” bags Nick had on hand in their room, and hide it under the mattress of his bed, when he thought the younger man wasn’t looking. _Rookie mistake,_ Nick remembered snickering to himself. _I’m always paying attention to you._ Dark eyes darted to the other bed, and he leapt out of his to test this memory. He gulped, and carefully lifted the mattress. Along with some dead bugs and other less than pleasant artifacts, sure enough the lone goodie bag was still there, half-full as it was with pills and dried specimens for mixing in drinks.   

Nick remembered how he had next scooped the baggie up, and held it to his chest as his eyes blurred with welling tears. “Damn it, Troy.” He’d rasped in solitude. And then, paused, before opening the bag and reaching inside it for two of the pills. Before spending any time considering it, he’d taken them with matching swigs from a small tequila bottle on the nightstand. And soon enough, he’d started swaying again, his heartbeat quickening to a frightening speed. He’d bolted out the door, through and past El Bazar’s main entryways, and into the darkness of earliest morning. He’d jogged, then walked, then jogged some more, until he’d found enough of a hill to sit on while awaiting the sunrise. He hadn’t known the time, or how long he’d have to wait there. But it hadn’t mattered, either. When a single roamer approached, he’d casually plunged his knife into its head. After it dropped, he’d sliced open its torso, and smeared himself with its viscera.

Eventually another small group of dead wandered by, and he’d hurried into the middle of them, looking each one over and staring just past their eyes. None were him. Upon realizing this, he’d let them shuffle away, and returned to his lonely vantage point. It hadn’t mattered to him that the dam was many dozens of miles out from Mexicali, that the resulting likelihood of Troy’s walking corpse making its way there was near nonexistent. Nick had been fully consumed with thoughts of his friend. And he’d stayed there until dawn broke an hour or so later, the black of night giving way to deep blues and then pinks. He’d laughed wildly as the sky slowly lightened, and somehow, he saw Troy beside him, sharing in his mirth. He’d seen his face in the burgeoning light of a new day. And he’d heard his voice in the whistling wind. Reason hadn’t factored into it. Only emotion. Sensation. Perception. And a depth of longing.

In a way, he had found what he wanted then. He’d found his friend in the fog of mingled drugs and booze. Troy’s image was so clear beside him, Nick had reached out to stroke his face. Even when his hand passed through him, the Clark boy had just cursed him with a giggled, _“Bastard”_. Finally, when the sun had fully risen, and his friend faded in time with his high, Nick fell onto his stomach and passed out. Some hours later, the unfortunate need to vomit woke him. Luckily, again, for him, he hadn’t rolled onto his back in the meantime.

Most days thereafter, he had repeated this dangerous ritual. And as he stood watching the newest sunrise now, he intended to recreate the experience for a numberless time. But something unusual stirred in him. Something had invited him to all of the prior recollection. And snapped him out of the usual euphoria. He knew what was at least partially responsible. As time had gone on, as much as he hated himself for it, “Troy” stayed with him less and less in those late night, early morning binges. Despite all of the mixes and varieties of drugs available, his tolerance had grown despite his best efforts to avoid it. All of the prescribed spells of conjuration were losing their potency.

Not only that, but “El Matarife” had recently dispensed some cryptic news about the Proctors reasserting themselves in the area of the dam. The structure was ruined, but that wouldn’t stand as an excuse to surrender influence. That stretch of the Tijuana River had become a small war zone, the gang having lost some number of men both in the initial attack on the dam, and in the following days. Thus it was said they intended to rebuild their forces and perhaps even do a bit of rebranding in the process. As bad as they were before, whisperings suggested an intensification. It would be nothing less than hell there.

But that was where Troy was. Was where he had been left behind. In spite of everything inside of him that urged against giving room to such notions, Nick wondered, what if he _had_ survived somehow? Would he have become a ward of the Proctors, languishing in their custody? If he’d miraculously healed and awoken after the hammer blows, and all of that water, would he even remember anything? What would the damage have left him with? Nick imagined finding him there, and greeting a wordless husk - a version of his beloved friend who no longer bore for him warmth or recollection. And the mere thought of it had the younger man quaking.

Either way, he thought, he would be chasing visions of a dead man walking. Whether he located Troy’s reanimated corpse among the bloody expanse of the riverside, or he managed to find Troy still alive there among the murderous gang, the odds were long and dark for any sort of “happy” reunion. And he mourned this realization without restraint. But he had to know. He simply loved him too much not to pursue whatever remained.

Nick drew a deep breath, and exhaled. More tears rolled down his face, carving lines through the dead blood he wore. But he ignored them. And instead made a solemn declaration to the sun and vanishing stars.

He _would_ return to Tijuana. He _would_ venture back to the dam. And he _would_ confront the veracity of cold rumors.

He _would_ descend into that realm of the lost and dead, that hellish limbo, and find him there, to free him one way or another. Or, he would lose himself - his sanity, his very life - in his search. And Nick was fine with either outcome.

_Like some kind of Orpheus._


	2. Goodbyes to the Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick makes some necessary preparations before heading west on his search of a lifetime.

Nick didn’t hurry back to his room. Rather, he just strolled along, letting the wind at his back press him onward. Intermittent twinges of nausea caught him off balance as he walked, but for now, he’d managed somehow to push it back down inside him. So that it wasn’t much more than a nuisance. He had nearly forgotten about the dried blood on his face, though. He would have, if vexed glances on his way back into El Bazar hadn’t reminded him that he still wore it like a chipping, stinking mask. Of course he didn’t think twice about answering those stares with casual licks above the corners of his mouth. _Let ‘em look, let ‘em talk._ It was what he’d said to Troy the night of their big adventure here. The night that he had convinced him to drink down the poison with him, and stagger through the darkness. The night he’d put his arm around his friend, and held him close - tantalizingly close. Troy probably had no idea how many times Nick fought the urge to pull him in for a sloppy kiss. The younger one could only imagine the reaction that would have gotten not only from him, but from all of the scowling, shadowed figures who watched them wander together. Could have been real messy. But absolutely worth it.

He stopped, and sighed. Brows wrinkled again at the recollection. The memories were still so clear, that they raised the gooseflesh from his shoulders down to his fingers. Dark eyes squeezed shut as he struggled with visions he so desperately wanted to relive. _It’s not enough, won’t be enough._ Upon opening them again, he noticed a few Proctor men heading in the direction of what Nick had come to fondly call “The Butcher Shop” - the habitually-darkened bar nook belonging to “El Matarife”, the Slaughterer. While that in itself wasn’t especially shocking, a gaggle of four or five of them making a visit there in early morning was certainly more on the unusual side of things. He followed, as lazily as possible to remain inconspicuous. And after they entered, Nick leaned back against a distant wall, and lit up a cigarette. The lingering waves of nausea made him cough a little with each drag. But he recovered, and minded his own business for the next ten minutes or so. Raised voices echoed, and Nick couldn’t be sure of the context. So he opted to stay back. The Proctors weren’t exactly known to be friendly conversationalists. Whatever was being said would be delivered quickly, tersely. And with a leering stare. And then, that would be that. It was like clockwork, after all. Proctor John insisted on that kind of systematic process in all possible things.

And, like clockwork, the gang members finally departed the bar with their usual menacing swagger. Nick kept his head down as soon as he noticed them leave, and half-turned as he finished his smoke. After waiting for them to get a safe distance away, he jogged over and slipped into the bar. It was empty, save for the bespectacled proprietor, who stood behind his counter, giving his forehead an exasperated rub. Of course Nick was immensely curious about the Proctor men’s presence, but he also knew that the Slaughterer wasn’t going to let the details go so easily. He would have to bide his time, play it cool. But he could do that.

“So...little early in the day for company like that, ain’t it?” He said, nodding over his shoulder. “I dunno how you put up with it, man.”

“Out again last night, I see?” The older man looked up and answered, tossing Nick a grimey hand towel. “I thought you had stopped trying, after you told me of your _disappointment_.”

After catching the cloth, the young Clark briskly wiped his face, removing a bit of the dead blood. He wasn’t surprised that his statement was smoothly ignored, but he also wasn’t giving up so easily. “Eh, not disappointment in the product, you know that. Disappointment in this dumb body and mind of mine, that’s it.”

“I did warn you.”

“Yeah, you did.” Nick shrugged. “You did. And as usual, I half-listened. I’m good at half-listening. I find that’s the only way for me to get anything into this ol’ head of mine. If I listen too much, it all falls out again. Not sure when that became a habit, but there it is.”

“It is a...what would you say...a coping mechanism? Eh?” The question came with a slight grin. Nick couldn’t help but answer with a weary smile of his own, and another shrug.

“Something like that. Maybe.” He leaned over the counter, eying the specimens off to the side. “I’ve got many, turns out. These babies get me into trouble, but I don’t mind it. I welcome the chaos.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. Maybe that’s why I’m gettin’ ready to take off for Tijuana. Leave this boring old place behind.” He shot the older man a curious glance, interested in his reaction to such a loaded declaration. As soon as dry laughter began in response, Nick knew he was right on the money.

“Tijuana? _Ay Dios mio..._ _”_

“Yep. Nothing does it for me here anymore. Honestly, I think everything I need is back there.” The Slaughterer narrowed his eyes at this, and he stared at Nick with particular intensity.

“Is that so? What is it that you want there? What is it that you want to find?” He paused and raised his brows, but continued right as the younger man parted his lips to reply. “Because if it is your friend, you might as well, eh, save yourself that true disappointment. And stick to what you know.” He motioned to the heads and harvested pieces sitting idly upon the counter. Nick followed his gesture, but quickly shifted his focus back on “El Matarife”.

The older man’s comment about Troy had flustered him somewhat. He hadn’t made a point to seek consolation from him on the subject - not since he first returned after events at the dam. And even then, the bartender had merely read between the lines, after the newly solitary young man let his tears flow freely in front of him that first night back. No, in fact, Nick had done his damnedest to suffer in silence. No one else needed to know his burden. No one else could possibly understand it, what he had witnessed, what his own mother’s rage had wrought. And words were insufficient to describe his feelings, and all that his friend conjured within him. So it caught him off guard now, the Slaughterer’s warning and subtle insight to what awaited him there.

“Why?” Nick asked, warily tilting his head. It unnerved him to an extent, the way it seemed that the other man had almost been looking _past_ him as he alluded to the dangers.

“Why? ‘Why’, what?”

“Why should I give up before even starting? What do you know about this that you aren’t telling me right now?”

“Bah, son, you know everything I know.” The man behind the bar waved a hand at his persistence, and began cutting into some of the dead flesh on his countertop. “I should not have shared rumors, but, I like you. You have been a great help for me. And my business.”

“But it’s more than rumors, isn’t it? I’m not blind, man, I’ve seen the way the Proctors have been around here lately. I’ve heard more than a few of ‘em slurring over their booze here about all the shit goin’ down in Tijuana. But you know what? None of that scares me. Not anymore.”

“It should.” The older man didn’t even stop slicing as he delivered that cold assertion. No, he didn’t miss a beat, not even looking up from his work to see a gape-mouthed Nick staring back at him.

“But _why?”_ It was becoming more difficult for the young Clark to cloak his growing impatience. And he shifted where he stood, huffing a bit as he did so. But “El Matarife” was unfazed.

“It is clear that you seek your own death. At the very least, you do not fear it. But there is no reason to seek it there, where there is only pain. Torment.” He paused to finally look Nick in the eyes again as he spoke. “If you must look to death, look to it here, where it will be kinder and sweeter, like a strange dream.”

“A dream, huh? Courtesy of your supply, no doubt.” Nick glanced away for a few seconds, and shook his head. “Nah, I...I’ve had enough of dreams, man. I’ve gotta go. Whatever’s left for me there - even if it’s nothing, less than nothing - it’s still more than anything here. Sick of going through the motions--”

“This friend of yours...he meant a lot to you.” The Slaughterer interrupted, studying the younger man’s face.

“...Yeah, you could say that.”

“He must have, for you to insist on such a hopeless venture. I asked you before, but you did not answer me. What do you hope to find there? Do you hope to find him?”

“...Maybe.” Nick sighed. “Maybe. Yeah, he’s probably dead. I saw what --” Emotion tangled in his throat. And he stood there, fighting the sting of tears again. But he took a deep breath, and composed himself. “If he’s dead, or if he’s alive somehow...I gotta know. I gotta find him. Shoulda gone weeks ago, but I was too damned busy convincing myself that hallucinations were enough. No time for that anymore. I have to know. If it takes my life, and I’m sure it will, whatever. Been a long time coming anyway.”

“You do not have anyone else who may be looking for you then? You are absolutely sure of this?”

“We were all separated in Tijuana. At the dam. Chances are good that if anyone else survived, they might be there, too.” It was hardly that simple. But Nick wasn’t about to get into the complexities of his familial feelings at this moment. He would leave it there.

“So your mind is set then. That is good. Because then you won’t waver in the middle of this. Wavering leads to missteps. Missteps will lead to capture and torture at the hands of either John’s men, or the dead. Perhaps both. You cannot afford to waver, my friend.”

“I...don’t plan to.”

 _“Muy bien.”_ The Slaughterer suddenly pulled off his gloves, and searched shelves and cabinets behind his counter. Nick saw him pull a few items out and gather them in a nearby bag. By the end, he’d filled it with bottles of water and tequila, small boxes with unknown contents, a few packs of ammunition, and of all things, a few sticks of dynamite. Nick smirked broadly at the final addition as the other man wordlessly handed the supplies over.

“Boom sticks, huh? You think I’ll need ‘em out there?”

“It is good that you are ready to accept death wherever you go. Because death is the only thing that Tijuana can offer.”

“Ah, now that’s a little dire.” The younger man chuckled awkwardly.

“I hope you find what you are looking for. John himself will be there. That is what they came to tell me this morning. The escalation is no rumor. And the war continues. The war with the dead, and the war with each other.”

“I get it. I do. But it’s not stopping me.”

“Go back to your room. Say your goodbyes to the ghosts there.” With that, “El Matarife” gave a modest smile, and extended his hand for a parting shake. Nick nodded, sadly, and grasped it in return. It was a solemn show of understanding between the two.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it. Everything. Maybe I’ll see you ‘round. Maybe I won’t be alone next time.” Nick turned to leave, and started walking out. But the other’s voice made him pause, and turn around.

“Look for John’s surgeon. That is your friend’s last real hope. If there is any hope left to find. But do not expect it.”

“I...I’ll keep that in mind. _Gracias, amigo.”_

“... _Vaya con Dios.”_

And so Nick at last headed back to the room he’d called home for all of these weeks. Opening the door one last time, he eyed the dimly lit space. It was odd, standing there with a supply bag in hand. The silence, the dead and dusty air...and yet, he could feel the sensations of all those memories playing out around him, within him. He kept thinking he heard Troy running water in the bathroom. And so he dropped his bag on a bed, and hastened over. The bathroom was empty, of course. But he stared at his face in the mirror, as he had that night they spent together, and started laughing at his bloody reflection. It began as chuckles, then deepened to the kind that rocked his stomach with each breath he drew in between. He wasn’t even sure what he was laughing at, really. The absurdity of his appearance? Recollections of all of the irritated exclamations Troy had hurled his way that night all those weeks ago? _Oh, damn._

Troy’s voice echoed in his mind. The anger that gave way to amusement, and then desire and pleasure. The jokes they’d shared the next morning, even as they strolled up to greet a less than pleased Madison. It all resounded in his head.

And just like that, his laughing shifted to weeping. Tears of lament replaced tears of mirth. And he stood there, unsure what to do, seemingly paralyzed by the crash of emotions.

“Damnit, Troy...would you remember this room? Remember...any of it?” He asked to the specters swirling around him. Something pushed him forward, though. Something struck a match inside him. And he grabbed a towel, wet it, and wiped the remaining gore off of his face. He continued until he made even the tiniest smears disappear. His brown eyes were ringed with redness from crying, and hollow from lack of sleep. But it was good enough for him now.

He then packed a few more supplies in the way of bandages, some dried foodstuffs, a flashlight, his gun, and what remained of his stash of “goods” - _for the road._ All went into the supply bag that the Slaughterer had given him.

After that, all he had left to do was what he’d just been instructed: make peace with all of the things that haunted this room. And press on.

Now that he had entered the room, though, Nick was finding it very hard to leave. But even harder to force himself to say his goodbyes first. He shut his eyes, and made himself listen to the echoing voices, made himself endure the tingling sensations, even made himself taste the kisses he’d shared here. He didn’t want to let it go by departing. No, he wanted to stay here and experience it over and over again.

But he had come to realize that he needed more than these illusions. It was what he had tried to confess to “El Matarife”. A heartfelt need, it would never be enough, all of the drugs, all of the dreams. No. Now, he needed confirmation. And reality.

This was how he knew he was truly ready to go. It was still painful, and he dragged his feet in resistance. But slowly back to the door he moved, supply bag in hand. Pushing the door open, he breathed the morning air in deeply, and turned around to face the inside of the room, one last time. New tears welled in his eyes, his voice quaking.

“...I have to go now. But I’m gonna find you. One way or another. I’m gonna find you. I promise.”

Nick smiled sadly as he imagined his friend and lover sitting on the edge of the nearest bed, grinning back at him, and giving him a gentle nod as he shut the hotel room door.


	3. One Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick departs El Bazar, only to be haunted by familiar ghosts on his way to Tijuana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, apologies for the delay in posting of this chapter! Work's been a small nightmare, and things have been hectic overall. But I do hope it was worth the wait.
> 
> Also, just because I know I appreciate things like this, here's the one song Nick has on his MP3 player. "Hotel California" by The Gipsy Kings: https://vimeo.com/35456805

Harvesting heads had a way of paying the bills in Mexicali. Only a couple of weeks of it for “El Matarife” had provided Nick enough cash to buy a pickup truck. It was similar to Troy’s red one, but blue and about fifteen or so years newer. Even still, it made grumbling, sputtering noises and threatened to die along the desert highway most times he dared drive on it. But it hadn’t quit on him yet.

After leaving the hotel room - likely for the last time - Nick made his way out of El Bazar. And he headed toward the surrounding lot where he’d left his trusty metal steed. It was dirty, and rusting a little at the sides. But it still stopped him now with the rush of familiarity, recollection. He very clearly recalled Troy exiting the driver’s side of his own pickup, a little grin threatening to spread wider with another quip from his younger companion. Nick had always tried to make him laugh. No matter what they were doing, where they were going, or how rough the situation was, he nearly weaponized mirth. On their way to the dam, after composing himself from an extended fit of laughter, Troy thanked him for it. He thanked Nick for the dumb jokes and everything that went with them. And in that moment, Nick felt the warmest flush over his cheeks and inside his heart that he ever had. A sigh escaped his lips now, as he approached his vehicle.

He kept a few full gas cans in a locked box in the bed, covered by a small tarp. And a couple of rifles, too. But where he was going, he didn’t entirely expect them to come in handy. From the way the Slaughterer had been foretelling it, combat would be intimate, close-quarters. Brutal. If anything, he’d have to depend on the silencer that fit so nicely onto his pistol. That, and his knife. Of course he had boomsticks as well now, and he could only imagine what scenario would necessitate them. But it was good to feel as prepared as he could going into this. And he sighed again as he opened the creaky driver’s side door, and placed his supply bag on the other seat. That musty smell of decades-old upholstery had an odd way of calming him. And he breathed it in deeply as he sat with his hands on the steering wheel for a moment. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and then shut the door with one solid thud.

Another deep breath. And he turned the key in the ignition. The old truck whirred and rumbled a bit, as it always did. But the engine dutifully rolled over. There was now nothing left to do but put the thing into gear and go. But somehow that was harder than he expected.

He thought about what “El Matarife” had told him about the journey, about what he could expect to find when he got to Tijuana. He thought about the drugs and tequila in his bag that sat nearby, even reaching for them with a shaky hand. But Troy’s voice echoed in his head again. His laughter. His teasing. And Nick pulled his hand back to the steering wheel. And put his foot on the gas pedal.

“Well...here goes…” He murmured.

Slowly, warily, he pulled out of the lot, and followed a series of road signs until he found his way back first to Route 2, then Federal Highway 2D, the straightest shot between Mexicali and Tijuana. He’d been on it a few times since coming back to El Bazar. But this, now, was triggering all of the weeks-old memories of when he and Troy had departed for the same destination. His friend had been intent to get to the dam before things escalated beyond intervention, while Nick was still coming down from the rewards he had imbibed prior to leaving. It’s not that he didn’t want to assist his mother. But he also hadn’t been all the way sure of what he _did_ want. Time, perhaps. Time, there, lost in the strange fog that choked every corner of El Bazar. Time with Troy, time to stumble along as they continued finding each other in that gritty place. Nick had actually possessed bad feelings in his bones about their journey to Tijuana. He couldn’t know what to expect, and part of him wanted to stay back even despite the information Troy had about the Proctors’ plans. He’d meant what he told him in the middle of the small herd of dead. He meant it when he told him that he couldn’t go back to her. And Nick felt a certain guilt in that, for having even briefly entertained the idea of leaving his mother to her fate there. But it still was never about _wanting_ ill things to befall her.

The morning was still young enough now that the sky retained something of a haze. He loved the fleeting coolness of desert air this early in the day, and he rolled his windows down. The wind kicked through his hair, the strands whipping as he drove. And he grinned a little at the gentle pleasure of it.

Structures became less frequent, until giving way to seemingly infinite stretches of sand and rocky hills. Shambling dead dotted the landscape in small groups of three and four. And as much compulsion as he felt to stop his truck and examine them - to make sure they weren’t _too_ familiar - he kept driving. “No...you wouldn’t have made it this far…” Nick mumbled to himself as he passed them.  

There was an odd comfort in the desolation. Aside from the hills and the occasional rotting sheds and outhouses, there were exceedingly few places for anyone to hide. The Proctors controlled most of the land through which he would be traveling. And likely, viable outposts would be reasonably clear of the infected, and any living rivals. He had a form of protection, given his employment with “El Matarife”. The parts he harvested went to the concoctions boosting their physical battle prowess, after all. So he had credentials, of sorts, that he could display if he were stopped. At least, while he remained outside the wilds of Tijuana. Once there, nothing was guaranteed.

A half-dried lake bed soon captured his notice to the left of the roadway. Definitely didn’t look like much, but he remembered it from the last time he had seen it. He had jokingly asked Troy if he wanted to stop for a quick swim in the oversized puddle. But of course Troy had just half-grinned back at him, possibly unsure of the degree of Nick’s seriousness. And softly replied, “Nah, don’t think so. Maybe on the way back, huh?”

“Fair ‘nough.” Nick had answered with a smirk. He still wrestled with foreboding feelings in those moments. But somehow, making such plans for the future aided in negating them, to some extent. He had every intention of holding Troy to it. Even with the uncertainty of their journey, he always figured they’d be back through here to properly explore - even if all there was to do was for Nick to smoke a cigarette while they strolled along the lake bed’s edge. Never really paid to make plans in this world - neither before the apocalypse, nor after it.

He sighed bitterly as he drove along, slowly shaking his head. But something else also caught his attention now. He recalled the same small and roofless structures along the right side of the highway. Movement spotted through glassless windows, however, intrigued him enough to slow down as he approached them. From the size of the buildings, he could tell not much stirred within. But it was the size of the figures he saw that really had him most curious. Something again told him to simply keep driving, to allow it to pass by and fade from his thoughts. But once more, he ignored that little voice in his mind - as he so often did.  

Glancing at his gas gauge told him he needed to stop and refill anyway, however. So he pulled off to the side of the highway, gradually rolling up to the structures and then parking. He pulled his gun from his supply bag, wanting to ensure that the area was clear before he got to fueling up. His knife was also handy, ready for swiftly pulling from his pocket. And so he opened the creaking door, and got out, squinting in the now bold sunlight.

His footsteps crunched in the sand as he approached the buildings. And it wasn’t long before the wind shifted and a familiar stench hit his nose. That sickly-sweet smell, one he’d grown far too accustomed to in these long months. The telltale growls came next, and he drew up his gun. Not seeing anything immediately outside the dilapidated structures, he ventured closer, looking through the large windows and gaps in the walls. A flash of motion caught his eye, so he followed it around to the other side. And his heart dropped when he saw what stirred.

Two small, dead children - what looked to be a girl and a boy - roamed the building aimlessly, snarling and hissing through rotting jaws. As soon as they noticed him there, they began shuffling toward him, clenching and unclenching their teeth, preparing to tear chunks out of his flesh.

Nick froze with flashes of memories, memories of one particular excursion to a pharmacy with Troy. They had decided to raid it in hopes of discovering additional supplies - though Nick’s motivations were somewhat less noble. He’d hoped to find some more pills to bring back with him. They didn’t come back with much to show for their troubles, but on the way, they’d stopped after being fired upon in an abandoned residential sprawl. While in a gunfight, Nick had encountered an undead young girl in a stained yellow dress. Though he put her down, the experience shook him. And not a day had gone by that he hadn’t remembered the bracelet she wore, with the name “PAPÁ” spelled out in little letter blocks. This, now, brought him immediately back to that day. And he felt the same wrenching sorrow all over again.

With sad eyes, he raised his gun and fired two shots. The children dropped with simultaneous thuds onto the ground. And Nick silently turned away, already sick to his stomach. Like with the girl in the yellow dress, he knew it was best not to think on the children’s circumstances out here. Did they die here? Did they die elsewhere and walk here? Where were their parents? Maybe in one of the adjacent buildings? No, it was best not to think on it. But he couldn’t help it. His heart ached.

After walking slowly back to the truck, gaze aimed at the ground, he stopped. And took another somber glance toward the structures. He mourned so much in the same moment, that it all began to overwhelm him. His knees slackened, threatening to buckle. But he steadied himself.

With another heavy sigh, he reached into the bed of the truck, unlocked the box, and retrieved one of the gas cans. He thought he heard voices and rustling in the sand not terribly far away as he re-filled the tank, but he saw nothing. No more dead, no living. No animals. More tricks of the desert.

Once finished refueling, he put the can back, and returned to the driver seat. As in El Bazar, he didn’t leave immediately. Instead he leaned his head against the steering wheel, and squeezed his eyes shut. Too many thoughts in his mind now. Too many swirling, clashing thoughts. It was a cacophony in his head. All of the voices, emotions. Weeping, screaming.

Too loud. Too much. Eyes abruptly reopened. Sweat began to bead on his forehead. And with little thought at all, he grabbed the “goodie bag” from among his supplies. And hurriedly opened it to retrieve a single pill.

“Just one...just one…just one...” Nick repeated to himself, maybe a half-dozen times before holding it up to his mouth. But again he stopped. His hand was still so shaky, that he nearly dropped the pill. But he bit down on his lips, hard enough to draw blood. And then haphazardly returned it to the bag. Instead, he opted for a modest swig of tequila. The feeling of it sinking down his throat alone was enough to bring the beginnings of peace he was so desperate for in this moment. Of course, it wasn’t “peace” by most anyone’s definition but his own. Rather, with every shallow breath he drew, he found it easier to confront hell as it bubbled over inside him and around him. Echoes of memories were becoming less shrill.

After several minutes of allowing the alcohol to settle down into his mostly empty stomach, he looked around, and swallowed. Eyes twitched. Some of his shakiness abated. But only some. He still wanted to reach back in for the pills. The Vicodin sang its siren song now, piercing his ears with it. And his entire body rattled as he thought about it.

“No...no...no...no...” He growled through clenched teeth. And he struggled to hold back tears as images of Troy’s bludgeoned face sprang into his freshly vexed mind. Too much. All too much. He took another small swig from the tequila bottle. But he couldn’t make the ghosts go away. Not Troy’s, not those of the dead children. Couldn’t make any of it stop.

But just as his mind drifted further into darkness, he remembered it: his MP3 player. As such formerly casual comforts had become novelties in these times, he was eager to score it at El Bazar, at the price of a pair of handsome Bowie knives he’d found while on a supply run with Troy weeks prior. Given the persistent interest in weapons, large and small, it didn’t take much actual haggling to make it his. The transaction was openly mocked for being lopsided, however. He was told it only had one song on it, and more than likely that’s all there would ever be. And the original charging cable had long since been lost. He strongly suspected this had been part of broader Proctor plunder. But none of that bothered him. He was happy enough to rid himself of the extra knives.

“Can’t use ‘em all at once, so...why carry ‘em?” He had shrugged and grinned. Just as he turned to leave with his acquisition, the trader told him to come back whenever he wanted to charge it up - apparently something of a tinkerer, he had fashioned himself a solar charging panel and a makeshift wire. Those items _weren’t_ included in the trade, of course. Nick just shrugged again, and nodded in thanks.

So he had walked away with it, a music player with one song, his precious little machine. And he was content. Eventually he found a quiet corner to settle in and see what song his two knives had bought. And after popping the earbuds in and switching the player on, a sizable grin flooded his face. Of all of the songs to be stuck with until the thing died, the Gipsy Kings’ cover of “Hotel California” was certainly not a bad one. Not at all. He had been lucky, indeed. He played it once, head bobbing to the hypnotic beat, before stashing it in his pocket where it would stay until he and Troy departed for the dam.

Just before the dry lake bed had completely vanished from view that day of their journey, Nick remembered the MP3 player and earbuds in his pocket. With a big smirk he retrieved them, and prepared them for sharing. With Troy somewhat more morose and serious than he had liked, the younger one decided to try his luck with his new treasure.

“The hell? Where’d you get that?” Troy had asked, one brow raised.

“Traded for it. Back there.” Nick nodded over his shoulder, still smirking.

“Dare I ask _what_ you traded?” Single brow was still raised, now accompanied by a charming smirk of his own.

“Well, we both know I don’t have a soul, so it wasn’t that. Nah, just those Bowies I found that time. Y’know, on one of the last supply runs, before…yeah...” His voice trailed. He hadn’t needed to finish the statement. They both had known what followed.

“You traded the Bowies for _that?_ Hope that thing’s loaded then. Shit.”

“Actually, no. Only got one song on it. And the guy who traded it to me told me I could come by and use his solar charger with it. But, I dunno-”

“What the hell?” Troy was outright laughing now. And it only made Nick happier.

“What? It was worth two knives I wasn’t gonna use anyway. Why, did you want ‘em?”

“Not necessarily, just think you could have made off with something way better than that at the end of the day.”

“Hey, music soothes the savage beast, my friend. And this savage beast needs soothing. C’mon, have a listen with me. It’ll get you pumped up for this little adventure.”

“Huh?”

“Here.” Nick said, handing him one of the earbuds, and putting the other in his own ear. “Pop it in. Prepare for your mind to be _blown_.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Nick couldn’t have put a price on the steadily unfolding smile on Troy’s face a few seconds after he started playing the song. It was clear that he just figured it for some generic Spanish guitar music at first, brows furrowed in puzzlement. But after the beat began and the iconic melody became obvious, even he, stoic Troy, started nodding his head to it as he drove - but not before passing a broad, if not incredulous grin to Nick. And then reaching over to ruffle his long hair in good humor. Nick couldn’t stop smiling back at him.

And the two of them readily sang out the chorus - at least, the “Hotel California” part - humming along to the rest of the Spanish lyrics. The windows were down, the sun shone brilliantly, and they followed the dusty highway to Tijuana. They put the song on repeat until they neared their destination. And Nick finally put the player away, stowed in Troy’s truck once they arrived at the dam.

And that’s where it stayed, until Nick found the truck again sometime after the explosion. He couldn’t drive the old pickup - the keys were on Troy’s body, and he lacked the time to hotwire it. But he was able to get the passenger door open without much trouble. And he retrieved the MP3 player as one of the last remaining artifacts of their time together. More than a music player now, it was akin to a sanctified relic.

Now back again on the same dusty highway to Tijuana, but alone, Nick pulled the MP3 player from the glove compartment. Still quaking, he struggled somewhat to unwind the earbuds and put them in his ears. Once he accomplished this, he switched it on. And pressed play. The song started, the guitar notes building up to the beloved melody. And the thrilling vocals. The sound of it all helped to pull him back from the black hole he felt himself so rapidly falling into. And slowly he regained his ability to focus.

Carefully, he turned the keys and started the truck up again. Then, put it into gear. Took a deep breath. And stepped on the gas. He didn’t exhale until he was on the highway again a few seconds later. His heartbeat quickened, and he could feel the adrenaline rising. And as he started singing along, the wind blowing hard through the open windows, he began to smile. For a few moments, he heard Troy’s voice singing right along with him. And his smile widened, as chills ran up and down his spine. It was fleeting, that sense of his presence. But it brought Nick comfort - and renewed determination.

A green sign soon came up along the right side of the road: “TECATE 105”. Nick nodded to himself, recalling it from their initial drive through here as well. Between the distance, and a partial battery charge remaining on his player, he figured he had time for at least ten more repeats of the song before he got to Tijuana. And that was more than fine.

He kept grinning as he sang, stopping only briefly to speak to the vacant seat beside him.

“I’ll be there soon…”


End file.
